Free Murder of a Dead Man by Katherine John Page B

still in the file.’ He poured a generous measure of brandy into his coffee and offered the bottle to Trevor who shook his head. ‘I thought there might be something in it, but there was no programme of face transplants in the UK at the time.
    I spoke to a plastic surgeon in Harley Street. Top man, he agreed face transplants were feasible in theory, but you’d need to remove the donor face carefully. And keep it in exactly the right conditions until it could be used. I showed him photographs of Anthony George’s corpse. He agreed it could have been a surgical removal, but it could also have been done by someone with knowledge of skinning animals. Without first-hand examination it was impossible to tell.’
    ‘Was there a PM?’
    ‘For the heart attack. But we didn’t consider the possibility that the face had been surgically removed until I saw that article, and by then George had been cremated. The pathologist who saw the body said that the face had been removed with a sharp blade, possibly scalpel, possibly knife. I studied his report, but the case wasn’t homicide and with three murder investigations on my hands, the theft of Anthony George’s face didn’t seem all that important at the time. I’m not apologising for relegating it to open file status. We were short-staffed, and orders came down from above to prioritise.’
    ‘What about George’s relatives?’
    ‘There were none to speak of. His mother was terminally ill with cancer. Her doctor wouldn’t allow us to interview her. She died not long after.’
    ‘Girlfriend?’
    ‘His partner ran a pub around the corner from George’s office. He was distraught at the time but when I called in there just before I retired, there was another young fellow around.’
    ‘His name?’
    Ted shook his head. ‘I can’t remember. But it will be in the file.’
    ‘What about an inheritance?’
    ‘If you’re thinking about someone going to all this trouble to impersonate him, forget it. I travelled down that road and ran into a stone wall. Anthony George was comfortably off. With insurance policies he left about two hundred thousand. It all went to the mother.’
    ‘And when the mother died?’
    ‘I checked on that too. She left half a million. It was divided equally between The British Heart Foundation and Cancer Research.’
    ‘No other beneficiaries?’
    ‘Her cook, maid and gardener received relatively small amounts, but nothing spectacular.’
    Ted heaped three sandwiches on his plate and sat back in his chair. ‘It was eerie seeing that face again tonight.’
    ‘You’re that sure it was George?’
    ‘Absolutely,’ he replied with the confidence of a trained eye. ‘I studied that face for weeks after that article was published. I sifted through dozens of photographs of Anthony George – I was winding down to retirement and things were going at a slower pace then,’ he explained in answer to Trevor’s quizzical look. ‘I even pinned one photograph above my desk. Apart from the features, the man in that video had the same mole high on the right cheek, the same scar below the bottom lip. It was in his passport as a distinguishing mark.
    Someone, I think it may have been his mother’s solicitor, told me that he’d fallen and put his teeth through his lip as a child.’
    ‘You really do know that face.’ Trevor took a sandwich.
    ‘If you’d stared at it as long as I had, Sergeant, you would too.’
    ‘I have a feeling I may be going to do just that,’
    Trevor replied.
     
    Trevor opened his front door at half past one. As Dan was picking him up in the morning, he left his car in the road so Lyn would be able to get hers out of the drive if she was on early shift. Lyn had emptied and restacked the dishwasher, the kitchen work surfaces had been cleaned, and the remains of the meal they had eaten earlier, cleared away.
    Creeping up the stairs, he opened the bedroom door quietly. Moonlight shone through the French windows, throwing the shadows of